Who Loves You, Man?
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: Fluffy brotherly love in which Sam realizes how much his big brother loves him and Dean gets pissed off about it.


_**Who Loves You, Man?**_

Sam Winchester groggily opened his eyes, lungs and legs aching from having run full-tilt for his life and his head hurting from having hit the side of the grave as he had all but swan dived to its bottom minutes prior. However, it had been the older Winchester who had taken the full brunt of the explosion. Dean had once again lost at rock-paper-scissors—twice—and, well, having been the one assigned to shove the grenade in the zombie's chest wound, he hadn't exactly made it to safety before it —_she_—exploded. (Obviously, staking was the way to go when it came to the undead for them, but, unfortunately, their unholy _actress_ hadn't wanted to get anywhere near her marker—grave marker that is.)

Body racked with pain, but still entirely too worried about his dear big brother, Sam yelled, still face-down with a pile of dirt in his mouth, "You alright, Dean?"

Dean, laid out in the middle of Ward County Cemetery and a mere five feet from where Sam had made it to cover, rolled onto his back, trying to imagine that he wasn't covered in goopy gore from head to toe. He was failing miserably. "Dude, I got blood and guts all over me like I crawled up inside that bitch and built a fucking nest. _No_. I am _not_ alright!"

_Yeah_, Sam smiled, still face-down in the dirt, _he's alright_. Too tired to add his own witty retort, the younger Winchester merely grunted, before getting his gangly limbs up and moving. Sam did so while aggressively wiping chunks of zombiefied Debra Russell off his back and ass. Why people thought that raising their crushes and having undead orgies with them was a good idea, he had no idea. But what could he do? There would always be black magic-wielding perverts out there.

"I'll tell you one thing, Sammy," Dean ground out, finally having made his way over to lend his baby brother a helping hand. "Man, I'd consider raising her from the old worm locker too if I didn't know she'd go all Dawn of the Dead on our asses. Did you see the rack and ass on that one?"

_See, prime example,_ Sam thought as he ignored Dean's waggling eyebrows and his cheeky flash of teeth—the only clean part on him, mind you. Instead, he just took Dean's outstretched, blood-painted hand and let him help him up from six feet under. Sam, however, didn't ignore Dean wiping his soiled hands all over the front of _his _shirt. Dean got a punch to the shoulder for that. But Dean just grinned a cocky little grin back as Sam's knuckles came away stamped with red. After wiping his fist off on the front of his shirt, Sam made his dirty other half carry the brunt of their gear—shotgun, shovels, their trusty green bag.

During their silent trek to the Impala that was parked just outside the wrought iron archway, Sam thought back to all of Dean's losing battles throughout the years where his scissors were always beaten like redheaded step-children. There were many, too numerous to count in fact. And, coincidently, they all had to do with contests to see who would be the first—or usually the_ only_—person to do something extremely stupid like: who got to lead climbing down into the hole of a crazed little girl's rat-infested bone yard, who got to distract some man-eating Wendigo, who got to take the blame for breaking the hotel room's VCR by death of peanut butter sandwich when they had both shoved one in there when they were kids. See, all stuff that would have ended in extreme bodily harm to Sam if Dean hadn't of lost and thus been forced to, basically, get his ass handed to him.

Suddenly overcome with the compulsion to dig into his sibling's grey matter, Sam nudged Dean's shoulder—the one carrying their customary green munitions bag—with a, "Hey."

Dean, running a re-bloodied hand through his bloody hair, agitatedly asked, "Hey, _what_?"

"You do it on purpose?"

Hitching the bag higher on his shoulder—hating the fact that he was getting it dirty—Dean rolled his eyes toward the gigantor next to him and lifted a brow. "Do _what _on purpose?"

"Lose on purpose."

Coming round the rear of their ride—Dean's baby—the older and highly suspect wiser one retorted back, "And _what __exactly _am I supposed to be intentionally losing at here, _Sam_?"

Popping the trunk and stepping back, Sam mimicked his tone, "Rock-paper-scissors, _Dean_."

Sam watched his brother give him a humph look—pursed lips, cocked brow and everything—before haphazardly throwing the stuff in his arms in their place and saying, "Sam, I don't know what that little brain of yours is thinking right now, but, seriously, who in their right mind would purposely lose at anything to a little girl like you?"

Sam, smile broadening by the second since he had just gotten his suspicions confirmed, replied simply, "_You_ would, Dean." And just to get the other's goat even further, he added with a shit-eating grin as his brother turned to him, after shutting the trunk, "Because you love me way, _way_ too much, Dean."

Dean, on the other hand, didn't find anything funny. Instead, he leaned toward his sibling with a murderous glare and a frosty tongue, "You know I could just leave you here, right?"

Sam, still smiling and trying not to laugh, answered feeling positive in his assumptions, "But you won't, Dean."

Dean, still glaring and only inches away, asked cockily, "Yeah, and why's that?"

Still trying to stifle his laugher, Sam managed to get out, "Because you love me, Dean," before breaking out with the guffaws.

Swiftly turning his back to the sight, Dean quickly headed to the driver's side door, yelling over his shoulder, "Oh, yeah, little brother?"

Mumbling things like _I'll show you who loves who_ and _kill you with my bare hands_ while trying to get his keys into the ignition, but failing because he was so angry—embarrassed—Dean completely missed Sam hauling ass to the passenger side of the car and quickly jumping in. When the purr of the Impala was finally heard and just before the pissed off driver peeled out onto the highway, Sam had put a hand on Dean's shoulder, reassuringly saying—while trying not to laugh, "Its ok, Dean. I love you too."

Dean's shout of, "Get the fuck off me!" could have been heard from a mile around before a dial was spun and the sound of AC/DC's Let Me Put My Love Into You was heard.

_Yeah_, a laughing Sam thought, while shaking his head at the way his dear older brother was so resolutely staring straight ahead at the road. There were seriously times when he was more than grateful for Dean's sometimes extreme over-protectiveness—especially when he could get a good laugh out of it, especially at his expense.

But, in all honesty, Sam really did love the big lug. Hell, he had said it before and he would say it a thousand times if need be. Dean had been more of a father to him than their own dad ever was. Ever since they were kids, Dean had been the one to teach him, to protect him, to listen to him bitch and whine over mundane things while never thinking twice about giving something up of his own if it meant his younger brother would be happier for it, even if that something was his own life. He had made a deal with a demon to bring Sam back from the dead, in exchange for him going to hell, for cripes sake!

The point was that Dean had proved time and time again that he would never leave him unless hell hounds dragged him down to the fiery down under, at which point there was nothing either of them could do, because, unfortunately, Cass could only give him a get out of jail free card once. And since their line of work didn't offer golden retirement plans, but only short life expectancies and little to no pocket change, well, Sam didn't mind letting his brother know that he was grateful he was still alive and kicking. That's why, tiredly settling back in his seat and closing his eyes for some welcomed sleep, Sam murmured, "I love you, man," even though his words were drowned out by classic rock lyrics.

But they weren't completely lost. Flicking his eyes back from Sam to the road, Dean's lips cracked a smile. They stayed that way ... for a minute, before the warm and fuzzy moment was over. Flipping his collar, Dean spun the radio's dial yet again, before head banging to the music and air drumming between steering.

Sam opened an eyelid, smiled, and then let the sandman have him for real this time. He knew his brother loved him. He also knew that it would take more than just hell hounds and the threat of everlasting fiery torment to get Dean to ever say it out loud. But that was just fine with him. That was just the way his older brother was and, hunkering further back in his seat, Sam wouldn't have him any other way.


End file.
